


words on a page ; stars in the night

by kakashi_mole



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-19 06:17:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakashi_mole/pseuds/kakashi_mole
Summary: Casca and Guts learn to read and write
Relationships: Casca/Guts (Berserk)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	words on a page ; stars in the night

**Author's Note:**

> Being literate in the Middle Ages was rare, especially for commoners and peasantry. I wanted to explore the possibility of Guts and Casca learning how to read and write during those three years in the Band of the Hawk (since it's shown in the anime & manga that they can read).  
> I also thought it would be funny if their teacher was Pippin, a stoic of few words.

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, and that made it all the more important.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if Guts hadn’t taken notice in the first place. It was sunset, and the entire day’s schedule had been free, save for every soldier’s routine chores. Supper was hot and brewing at the tented galley, and men were already forming a line along the row of tents. They talked and laughed. Someone among the band had caved in and began sharing goblets of beer. Collectively the camp was abuzz with anticipation, one being the itch to get back on the field of battle, and another for the smell of hot stew wafting through the summer air.

Guts was helping prepare the evening fires. He had spent the latter part of the day chopping firewood. It was tedious work, but he couldn’t complain. The rise and fall of the ax was monotonous. It required no thought; it was simply done. Drops of sweat rose on the back of his neck. He lifted himself up, firewood tucked under his arm, and looked out at the falling sun. It descended beneath the horizon, its light settling amidst the white tent raised at the edge of the encampment.

Griffith and a team of proud warlords, elites from a struggling land, had been in the tent for hours.

Guts crouched to the earth and began arranging the firewood into an ashen pit. The men were in good spirits, despite the sweltering heat wave. The clink of tin goblets, mingled with his comrades’ voices, filled the atmosphere. 

Just as purple twilight swept over the sky, the warlords emerged from the tent. They too seemed in good spirits. Griffith followed behind.

Guts drifted into thought, staring without intent, until he saw one pompously dressed lord hand Griffith a parchment with writing on it. The lord handed Griffith a quill made of an eagle’s feather. The sharp point had been dipped in thick, jet black ink. Guts’ head tilted to the side a little, his eyes squinting as he watched Griffith take the parchment into his own hands, his blue eyes scanning the page, before promptly signing the paper with the quill.

A few exchanges were made between the men, hats were tipped in Griffith’s direction, and the two groups parted ways. A good deal had been made, and the murmur among the camp rose.

Guts realized his stare had been noticed. From the crowd Judeau emerged. He settled himself next to Guts, plucking a sweet stem of honeysuckle from his mouth.

“You saw that too, huh? How do you figure Griffith learned to read and write?”

Guts grunted, returning his attention to the firewood in front of him.

“Are you asking because you know, or because you want to know what I think?”

Judeau grinned.

“I’d like to hear what you think.”

Guts was silent for a moment. As always, Judeau waited patient, propping himself against a rogue boulder and crossing one leg over the other.

“I thought reading and writing was for nobles and lords,” Guts replied.

_So I guess it suits a man like Griffith_ , he thought to himself. 

“Pssh.”

The hovering figure of Corkus joined them. He had been eavesdropping while hustling a steel striker and flint from other Hawks. The smell of beer was heavy on his breath, and he staggered to the group, jauntily red-faced and pleased with the overall aura of suppertime.

He positioned himself between Guts and Judeau, backhanding Judeau on the chest and gesturing at Guts.

“I hear you ladies talking about Griffith’s eloquent ‘ _literacy_.’”

He struck at the firewood with the flint and steel. A few meager sparks fanned the air. He tutted under his breath, “Knowing him he probably taught himself.”

Corkus waved the hot steel in the air before situating it in his grasp again.

“He’s probably the only one in the band who can read,” Judeau stated, then added, scratching at his chin, “and write.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Corkus said. A wry smile came on his face. “I happen to know someone in this very mercenary band who can also read and write.”

He struck at the flint again, but the sparks only coughed pitifully. Guts jerked the flint and steel from the man’s hands and struck it once. An immediate rush of sparks flied forth and set the wood ablaze. He tossed the steel and flint back to Corkus who scrambled to catch it.

Judeau calmly asserted that Corkus was full of hot air, to which Corkus called him a yellow-bellied churl. Guts glanced around the camp. Fires were being lit and the purple twilight was darkening into night. From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow flicker from the rising fire.

Casca was nearby, leaning against an old willow tree, her arms crossed. 

She was listening to their conversation without joining in.

Guts was about to call her over when Corkus interrupted.

“Guts, are you listening?”

Guts turned to him and blinked.

“I said, is it really a stretch to think Griffith taught himself to read and write? I mean, c’mon, this is Griffith we’re talking about.”

Guts swallowed, a slight shrug to his shoulders.

“I don’t know. It can’t be easy to learn, can it?”

He heard Casca shift from one foot to the other.

Corkus raised his hands and said, “Two silver coins says you bastards will never guess who else can read in our rag-tag band of mercenaries.”

“Three silver coins says we’ll find out before you tell us,” Judeau said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. He leaned back, crossing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

Pippin, with his massive stature, parted the crowd as he approached the campfire of his closest comrades. Rickert was at his side, darting ahead to land a place next to Guts.

“Did you hear? Griffith signed a pledge for some noblemen just south of here. They negotiated forever because of some money troubles, but they’re now willing to pay in weapons and supplies.”

Corkus harrumphed, “Looks like we’ll be heading out at the ass-crack of dawn then.”

He stoked at the fire, adding, “No rest for the wicked.”

“They were really impressed by Griffith’s strategy,” Rickert continued.

Pippin settled into the circle, his large hands balancing several bowls of stew. He passed these around the group silently.

“Of course. Guts, tell Rickert about your discovery,” Corkus said.

Guts glared at him.

“What discovery?”

“Guts found out that Griffith can read and write,” Judeau said.

“Oh yeah! As far as I know, him and Pippin are the only members of the Hawk who can do that!” Rickert exclaimed.

Corkus shot straight up, smacking his forehead.

“Rickert! Goddammit, I had a bet going here!”

Guts looked out into the darkness. The exchange between the men, from Rickert’s apologies to Corkus’s reprimand, became muffled. Casca was sitting now, the back of her head pressed against the tree. She twirled a leaf between two fingers.

Guts felt like calling out to her, to tell her to quit moping and join them for supper.

What was making her so solemn all of a sudden?

Pippin placed the bowl of warm stew into Guts’ hands. The giant of a man gave a slight nod, and immediately in the gesture Guts knew what he meant. He looked out among the newly lit fires, his eyes searching for their leader. It stirred in his gut, made the sun-cooked dust beneath him rise into the air as he crossed his legs and swallowed his first bite of stew. It was tough and slightly bloody, but it made him want more.

He nodded at Pippin.

Guts peered out of the corner of his eye, but Casca was nowhere to be seen.

———————————

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but goddamn, couldn’t every letter sound the same? Why did ‘ph’ sound like ‘fu’ and, fuck it, he couldn’t remember if the word ‘Midland’ was spelled with an ‘a’ or a ‘y’. Why did ‘y’ sometimes sound like an ‘a’ anyway?

He was glad when he could end lessons with the excuse to go swing his sword. At least his sword made sense. Its weight and feel was familiar in his hands. How could the pen possibly be mightier than the sword when every time he became frustrated the pen would snap in his grip?

The summer day was arid and stifling. The dry spell had curled the plants, and patches of grass had given way to a shriveled brown. 

Atop a hill, overlooking the camp, Guts heaved his sword through the air and cut through the rush of thoughts. It was past noon and he was trying to clear his head of that day’s lesson. Pippin had been extraordinarily patient, as he usually was, but that day, in his silent, stoic way, he told Guts that he was at a precipice. He had learned the fundamentals of reading, but there was a form to writing that he was still struggling to understand.

Pippin had given him an old book which was falling apart, and in the book there was a dull plot about a knight who was destined to kill his only brother. Somewhere within the story a queen took notice of the knight, and Guts felt himself reel back with every interaction between the two. Romance was for nobles, he decided. And if the ideal romance was something this fabricated, then he could only see the humor in such courtly, trivial troubles. 

And yet, the moment in the story when the two lovers broke apart intrigued him. Guts tried to wrap his head around it. These characters claimed love was like the moonlight— it was always there, even if it happened to wax and wane, grow and recede.

And Pippin, despite being a helpful teacher so far, told Guts in sparse words that the meaning of such a phrase was left for him, the sole reader, to understand.

Guts exhaled heavily, lifting his sword over his head to prop against his shoulder. Down the hill’s slope he could see the movement of the Hawks, in and out of tents, hammers forging against anvils, horses being led to bundles of hay. They would be on the move soon, towards their next battle. All they were waiting for was Griffith’s command.

He wondered when the rain would come again. The dry air made it difficult to breathe. His clothes were caked in dust.

The book Pippin had given him laid on a tree stump. Guts took it, sat on the stump, and flipped open the pages. His sword propped in the crook of his arm, Guts’ eyes scanned the page. He felt foolish for trying to learn, yet at the same time he wanted to know because Griffith knew.

It wasn’t crucial to his survival, and he certainly wasn’t going to make a living as some sort of writer, but he still couldn’t dissuade the notion inside him that he should at least try. Griffith had never asked if he was literate when he joined the Band of the Hawks, and perhaps, some day in the future when the opportunity rose, Guts could prove himself as a learned man.

Still, how would a metaphor aid him in the heat of battle? How would a fictional story heal the inevitable wounds he would receive?

Could a pretty poem heal a bleeding cut?

Guts shook his head, slammed the book closed, and set off down the hill, towards the river where he could have a drink of water. The grass swayed in the breeze. Yellow dandelions dotted the ground beneath his feet. _These were the kinds of things writers explored_ , he thought. _I have been reading about the beauty of the earth_.

The young man took a breath of fresh air. The weight of his sword leaned into his steadfast body.

 _But the words are nothing compared to feeling the real thing_.

He came upon a sparse thicket of trees near the water’s edge. The soldier rounded a corner of trees, only to stumble upon the hunched body of a lone soldier sitting cross-legged at the bank, their head bowed to a book laying in their lap.

The soldier startled just as Guts stepped back. They exchanged looks, and realizing who the other was, both began to relax. Casca sighed, brushing her hair off her forehead.

“You scared me,” she huffed. “For a moment I thought you were—“

She paused, sitting up taller.

“Do you need something?”

Guts shook his head.

“No. Just here to get water.”

Casca nodded, then glanced down to the book in her lap. The book was old, just like the one Pippin had lent to Guts. It seemed as though it had been read so many times it was worn out from simply fulfilling its purpose.

“You…I didn’t know you could read,” Guts stated.

Casca flustered. She shut the book and stood, brushing the leaves from her legs.

“No, I…I was only bored, so I was looking through the pages.”

“You were looking pretty intently,” Guts said.

There was a strained minute of silence between them. Casca had shifted back, holding the book close to her chest.

“I’m learning.”

Guts’ raised his brow, then said, “I’m learning too.”

Casca blinked, surprised.

“From who?”

“Pippin.”

Casca’s stare hardened, and she lowered her gaze.

“Pippin is teaching me too.”

“Oh.”

Guts scratched at the back of his head.

“It’s not easy,” he admitted.

He wondered if the hint of red on Casca’s face was only imagined, a trick of the shadows beneath the trees.

“No, it isn’t. But literacy is a useful tactical strategy. We could use it to intercept letters and secret codes.”

Guts pressed the tip of his sword into the ground and leaned on it.

“What are you reading?”

Casca drew back.

“It’s nothing.”

“What? C’mon, you looked like you were in another world. Can I see?”

He held out his hand. Casca hesitated. She pursed her mouth and handed over the book, spitting out, “It’s not on Griffith’s level, but it’s a start…” 

His eyes scanned the pages. After a minute she crossed her arms and glared at him. 

“Are you laughing?”

Guts bit his bottom lip, then shook his head.

“I never would have taken you for a romantic type.”

“I’m not. Pippin claims that the cheapest books on the market are romance novels.”

Guts flipped through the book. The pages were water-logged and yellowed. He stopped when he realized one of the pages had been written in. The ink looked fresh. He read the handwriting, having difficulty with a few words, but felt more curious about how pretty the actual handwriting was. The letters were plain and straightforward, neat and punctual. A slight curve was put on the end of each word, and for some reason, the image of a crescent moon came to mind. The image receded when Casca yanked the book from him and slammed it shut.

“Hey!” Guts blurted. “I was only looking!”

Casca retreated. She hopped down the small embankment until she was on the sandy border of the river. Guts gathered his sword and hopped down, joining her by her side in a quick jog. He wasn’t sure why he felt the urgency. The moment had happened so fast, and he was so intrigued by the message written in the book.

“Was that your handwriting?” he asked.

Casca ducked her head down under a low tree and continued walking. Guts stooped down, his hair tangling in the tree for a moment until he yanked free.

“It wasn’t bad. You have neat handwriting. But it also said something about roses? The heart is like a rose, and…”

Guts walked backwards so they were facing each other, vying for an explanation. He wasn’t one to beg or plead, and he was already feeling incredibly foolish for following the young soldier with such enthusiasm.

Casca eyed him, slowing her pace. She put a hand on her hip.

“It was something stupid I wrote. Listen—“

She paused, her cold hard stare returning in the flash of a second.

“Don’t tell Griffith I’m learning how to read and write.”

She continued forward. Guts watched as the river swept away a green leaf down current. Patches of sunlight shone through the canopy of trees above. He took long, glided steps to catch up.

“Why hide it?” he asked.

Casca worked her bottom lip between her teeth. She seemed genuinely concerned, and Guts wondered if asking her this persistently was because he wanted to know, or if it was because he wanted to share this with someone, even if that someone was a woman who probably hated him, or at least, was repulsed by him.

Images of a freshly bloomed rose grazed the recesses of his mind. The curl of the petals, the deep, dark reds flowing from the center of the flower. Without meaning to he caught himself staring at her lips. Blood rushed to his face and he settled himself to walk by her side. He told himself to calm down— it was only the heat of the day that was making him delirious, susceptible to noticing shapes and colors he would otherwise overlook without another thought.

Casca paused once again on the riverbed. She paced to and fro, then asserted herself.

“If I’m going to be of any use to Griffith, then…” She placed her forehead in her hand. “I need to do this. Being able to read and write would be an asset to the Hawks. To him.”

Guts tilted his head. 

“Do you have to be useful?”

Casca shot him a hard glare, then gave a swift punch to his shoulder.

Guts startled, quipping, “Dammit, I didn't mean it in a bad way! I meant that as long as you keep fighting, then you're useful to him. To everyone.”

Casca looked into the river’s water. Guts rubbed at his shoulder, then looked too. Their reflections blurred and softened in the passing current. In the forest thicket they heard birds sing, and beyond that in the distance they heard the gallantry of men’s conversations mingle and flow.

He eased his sword into the sand and leaned on it once more. Such moments of ease were few and far between, and he considered it like a good meal to be able to rest and sink into a quiet contemplation. His eyes drifted over to the reflection of Casca. In the water he could make out her dark eyes, the sweep of her hair over her forehead, the way her body held onto something when lost in thought, whether it be a sword or the book she now currently held in her hands.

“What you wrote in there. About the roses. What did it mean?” Guts asked.

Casca’s face reddened.

“It’s…” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, assuaging the silliness of her reservation. “Pippin gave me books of poetry to read. I read through them, and I thought I’d try to write my own.”

She looked out past the river, deep into the thicket of forest where the songbirds dwelled.

“I remembered the wild roses that I’d sometimes see while traveling with the Hawks. How the roses held onto anything they could, to grow, to survive.”

She opened the book.

“The roses made me think of a heart. Maybe a real heart, the kind you would pierce in battle. But also…maybe another kind of heart.”

She looked over at Guts and laughed, as if to remind him of how insignificant the sentiment was to her.

“But what you wrote,” Guts interjected. “That the rose is choked by its own thorns. Why would that happen?”

Casca wavered, her eyes wide at realizing how intently he had read what she wrote.

“It was nothing,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

They were silent for a few moments more. Guts hadn’t realized until now how comfortable it was to share silence with Casca. She squatted down, her fingertips touching the surface of the flowing river.

“Whatever I write is just practice, to help Griffith and the rest of the Hawks achieve their dreams. Nothing more.”

Guts lowered his sword, squatting on the sandy shore next to the girl.

“It was pretty good. You’re definitely better at the whole reading and writing thing than I am.”

He dismissed the incredulous look Casca gave him.

“I didn’t think I’d ever become a master at it,” he said with a shrug. He leaned forward, cupping his hand into the river. He brought the water to his mouth and drank.

“I don’t know why I’m doing it,” he admitted, shaking the water from his hand.

He pressed his lips against the hilt of his sword.

“My heart is a rose, held together by thorns,” he mumbled, repeating what his fellow soldier had written.

Casca laughed, slapping his unflinching arm.

“Do not ever repeat that, _ever_ ,” she chuckled.

“It’s not bad. Maybe you were born to be a poet, not a mercenary.”

He leaned more closely to the sword, the words spilling forth without his control, “The heart a red rose. There’s something true about it.”

From behind the thicket of trees came Rickert’s voice, calling for Casca. The camp had made the decision to move. A new battle was on the horizon.

Casca rose, Guts following suit.

As they traversed out of the woods, Guts opened his book, asking Casca for help on a certain word.

“The word is ‘Cordially’,” she stated, scoffing, “Think of everything you’re not. That’s what ‘ _cordially_ ’ is.”

“Okay. Is this a word you’ll use in your next love poem?” he retorted.

He took Casca’s punch to his arm as a good thing. They stepped up the embankment and into the camp, where the dust rose and the song of steel upon steel rattled amongst the body of the Hawk.

———————————

The sky was heavy with rain. Sheet lightning pulsated through the dark clouds, flat and filled with static.

It was near minutes before they were called into battle, and Guts was in his tent, lost in the act of writing.

He had taken to reading more frequently since discovering Casca was also learning how to read and write. He hardly thought about the learning process, except when it was nighttime. At night, when the men were in their tents and all was quiet, Guts caught himself thinking that he was now inspired to read, not to be on par with Griffith, but to enjoy reading for the sake of the experience. He would watch as Casca lost herself in the imaginary world of a novel, or how she would lift her eyes from a poem and look out into the wide expanse of nature.

It made him wonder what it was she had felt while lost in that other world.

The open blue sky, the drifting white clouds. Flowers held more beauty, the full moon held a certain mystery among the congregated stars… like campfires strewn out amongst eternity…

He knew this, he had felt it before, but now he could write it down. Each word meant something, each letter stood alongside the others like a battle formation.

And here he was, before a battle, scribbling a thought onto paper as fast as he could. The young man wondered if he was speaking to himself, or to a specific someone. The thousand shades of brown earth, the mesmerized look in dark brown eyes as they looked up from the page…

Guts shook the thought from his head. He wasn’t sure what he was writing. He never would.

Guts was called from the tent. He mounted his horse and set off for the battle. The dry dust of the hot summer choked his breath. He forgot what he had written, instead focusing his attention into the swing of his sword.

During the chaos of the fight, the tent had been set ablaze by the enemy. When the raiders returned, Guts included, they found most of their possessions had been scorched.

By then, he was too exhausted and battered to remember what it was he had written down.

When the battle was officially declared the Hawk’s victory, the black hovering clouds let go. The rain came all at once, a downpour that caused the men to erupt in ecstatic celebration. Their whoops and hollers sounded throughout the drenched battlefield. Rickert and Judeau slipped through the mud, grasping at Pippin and Corkus for balance. Casca removed her helmet and let the rain fall down her face. Guts saw her close her eyes, and then remembered what he had written.

He had written about the moon— the strange guiding light which told him it would be forever and eternity.

The meaning of this drifted from his memory, and he joined his comrades in the refreshing rain, the water ridding their bodies of any blood and dust, all aches and pains washed away under the rhythmic cascade.

———————————

Why did the nighttime bring the worst of her heartache?

It had been nearly a year since Griffith had been imprisoned and the Band of the Hawk had been forced into exile, hunted and killed to the outskirts of the country’s border. She had chosen remote locations, planned every escape route, worried over every possible disaster that would strike their dwindling forces. In the cool night air, looking out amongst her comrades, she did not see an army, but rather each individual man— aching, agonizing, desperate for a sign of hope.

Likewise, Guts, the captain of the Hawk’s raiders, had been gone for nearly a year now.

She went to her tent, and did not take supper that night.

There was a letter she had received early that morning, open on her rickety wooden desk. She had read it more times than she could count. It was sent from a secret informant within the Midland castle walls. Within the letter’s cursive handwriting contained crucial information about how to possibly recover Griffith from within the kingdom’s dungeon. The information brought a glimmer of hope, but the curly handwriting, beautiful and elegant, made her stomach tense. A wave of nausea swept over the young woman, and hoping no one would disturb her, she allowed herself to cry.

The letter was open in front of her, and she read it as the tears blurred her vision. Casca laid her head on the desk, and took a deep, shaky breath. She willed herself to keep her resolve, to remain steadfast and strong for the men who depended on her. Judeau, Rickert, Pippin, Corkus…the faces of each and every man among the Hawks flashed across her mind. She lifted her arms onto the desk and rested her head in the crook of her elbows. The beautiful, elegant handwriting in front of her stirred something within her. She closed her eyes and remembered Guts’ hands.

It was so long ago— the motion of his hands grasping the quill, hovering over the parchment as she spelled the word out to him.

It had been after a big rain. She remembered vaguely a battle, but she remembered the downpour that followed more intensely. After that rain the world seemed to teem with overgrown life. That was the summer she had first learned to read and write.

The Hawks were camped in a wide open meadow where the wildflowers covered the ground in blankets of blue and yellow. Guts and Casca had gone for a walk, keeping their distance from each other, noting the battle strategy that had secured their victory just a few days prior. As they walked they noticed how alive the earth was— how everything seemed to be building up to something big, something neither of them could anticipate.

They found a shaded spot beneath an oak tree and took rest.

She couldn’t remember how, or why, but it had been easy— sitting there, feeling the breeze, opening a book and working through the words. Then they began spelling. Guts’ hand, scarred and calloused, holding onto the quill, a furrow to his brow that softened his eyes but hardened his jaw.

Casca spelled it out for him. 

What word was it? She shut her eyes tightly, her mouth forming a thin, concentrated line. Her eyes watered, the exiled men in the camp were asleep and no sound could be heard except the distant hoot of an owl.

“Perchance,” she whispered.

Guts’ hand writing the word in stiff, bold lettering. The songbirds above taking flight.

Perchance.

“Perchance I’ll never use this word again,” he had said.

Casca opened her eyes. The candle on the desk dripped white wax, shuddering its small, quaint light against the tent’s canvas interior. She watched the flame flicker, refusing to burn itself out.

The leader of the Band of the Hawks was absent, possibly dead. It was almost impossible to hold onto hope.

And for some goddamn reason, by odd chance, there was a small smile on her lips.

The memory of Guts from so long ago, looking up from the parchment, his eyes a flicker of unsophistication that was easy to understand, easy to…to…

Casca placed her hand over her chest.

Her words,

“ _If I’m going to be of any use to him…_ ”

His words, deep and gravelly,

 _“As long as you keep fighting._ ”

She lifted herself up, wiped the tears from her eyes, and set to writing down a new plan to free Griffith.

She paused between sentences, that long ago memory coming in ebbs— the smell of wet earth, the sounds of her comrades shouting victorious to the sky…the look on Guts face as he turned to her, his mouth forming a kind and gentle smile.

The red rose of her heart, asking, why was it that when she fell asleep, the first face she hoped to see upon waking was Guts?


End file.
